Spank America Decent
by aiiXael
Summary: America finds out about Russian clubs and a specific club event called 'Spank America Decent'. Russia is not nearly as amused as America is.


"Shit, fuck, it's cold out there!" America swore, slamming the door of Russia's house, and dancing in place to get the blood flowing back into his fingertips and toes. Despite his frequent visits to the russian's house, he was never quite ready to deal with Moscow winters.

Russia smiled from his seat on the couch, but it wasn't a happy smile. He drained the last of the vodka in the bottle he held, before he asked, "Why are you here, America?"

Alfred looked at the Russian, and grinned. "Can't I visit you? We're friends again right?" he asked. His eyes were shining-practically glowing- in the dark of Ivan's living room, and he was hopping between feet like a child about to get candy. Ivan thought about the answer for a long minute, long enough for America to leave the doorway and come bouncing to where he sat on the couch, before he answered.

"Да. Maybe," he replied finally, contemplating what could put America in such high spirits.

"And besides, I visit all the time!" Alfred continued, pulling off his glasses and cleaning the fog off of them with one gloved hand, grinning and looking Ivan over with his eyes no longer obscured. Russia preferred America like this—glasses off, flushed with the cold, but still so warm. Russia stopped himself from reaching for the American, instead reaching for another bottle of vodka.

"Нет. You don't visit in the winter. And when you do it's on business," Russia replied. He went to open the bottle, and felt it slip out of his grasp as America snatched it out of his hands. His eyes shot up to the American, in a heated glare but Alfred didn't seem to notice, instead putting it back on the table.

"No, dude, we are so going out tonight!" America laughed, and tugged on Russia's arm, trying to drag Russia out of his spot. The Russian frowned, letting himself be pulled out of his seat, without much fuss—America wouldn't have been able to do it if there had been one.

"Out? Why?" he asked, giving America a small frown, and looking back at his (almost) warm couch with his vodka. What did a club have that he didn't have here? He stopped letting America drag him, stalling the two of them halfway to the door.

"Because! It's-it's freaking AMAZING!" Alfred shoved his glasses back up his nose, dancing from foot to foot once again, practically oozing out happiness from every pore. "Like, I have no words, NO WORDS on how AWESOME I think you are right now."

Russia's eyes widened slightly in surprise. Awesome? He was awesome? What had he done right to get America so jittery? His puzzled surprise lasted the amount of time it took America to pull him to the door and out into general winter's domain. Then a sharp burst of cold wind hit his face, pulling him back to reality. "America?"

"Yes?" America looked back to the larger nation, a dazzling, if not slightly chattering, smile on his lips. He fumbled in his pockets for a moment, looking for keys, before remembering they were in the car.

"Where are you taking me, exactly?"

"I'll tell you in the car," the younger nation replied, and jogged to the driver's side without another word, leaving the Russian no choice but to follow. He sighed and slid into the passenger's seat, feeling the blast of sudden heat. He shut his eyes and enjoyed it for a moment, simply enjoying it a small smile curving his lips upwards. He felt the car move and found that he really didn't care where he was being taken to. All he needed to know was that he was with America and America was warm. Even here, America radiated warmth and it wasn't just the warmth from the heater, either.

"Anyway, so Poland was trying to get me to go out clubbing with him—he said the other nations were being too stuffy, and France was busy with Canada and he thought it would be fun, so he gave me a few magazines… They were magazines from all over. I saw some stuff in England that was pretty spectacular—though I don't think that England would ever admit to having them. But I have to say you definitely take the cake in the clubbing scene—which is kind of surprising you know. You never said you were a party animal. But even I can't top some of the stuff you pulled off, which is saying something, because my clubs are pretty freaking awesome. And are you listening to anything I'm saying?"

Russia felt his smile slip over his lips, not the automatic one that was nearly always plastered to his face, but the one meant to please America-- the real one. "Of course. You were saying something about clubbing with Poland, Да?"

"Well, yeah, but not exactly. I just really wanted to see this one club thing in _person_. And I thought you could come, since this is your home and everything, since we don't go out nearly enough together."

"We usually get caught up in other things," Russia replied, feeling his smile grow. Those other things usually involved a lot less clothes, and a lot more _America_.

"Well, yeah..." America smiled—grinned really-- in response. "But tonight, we're going clubbing."

"I don't club," Russia replied simply. "But I wouldn't mind stopping by a back room if—"

"Like hell you don't club—dude, you have AWESOME clubs. Anyway, we're almost there. Just need to find a parking spot. You know, I'm really glad you guys drive the right way up here. Whenever I'm visiting England or Japan, it's always backwards and it's a pain in the ass. Oh! Found one." With that said, he swerved into a tight fitting space between two ridiculously small sports cars and slammed on the breaks.

Before Russia even had a chance to take off his seatbelt, America had already gotten out of the car and was yanking open the door to the passenger side. The only thing that kept Russia from glaring at the younger nation's impatience was the fact that he was practically glowing.

He let America hang on his arm, like an overzealous school boy, and pull him into the club. The smell of sweat and alcohol greeted them as the blond flashed something to the guards and they let the two of them through. While the scent of alcohol was rather promising, the flashing lights and blasting music had him looking for a quiet corner, where he could teach Alfred about _patience_ and why it was better if you waited for some things.

"Oh my god! OH! MY! GOD!!" he heard America shriek when he tugged him into the main room. He had to lean close to Russia's ear and scream to be heard over the throbbing base. "SHIT! This is SO much better in person!" And then Alfred was laughing, and Russia glanced up to what America was going on about and then he saw. Of course it was something he had known about, and had desperately hoped Alfred would never have found out about. And of course America had found out about—he was _America_. Anything even remotely embarrassing or secret, he could sniff out like a hound.

"That's my name, right? In your language? Then that one is spank right? Or is it that other funny looking one?"

Russia didn't reply, stopping dead. It had everything a normal elitny club had of course: flashing lights--red, white and blue, of course--, strippers--again, in red white and blue clothing, and underneath the scarcely there fabric was definitely body paint in the same color scheme--and alcohol. He'd be damned, even the alcohol was red white and blue in color. Glitter was everywhere, sparkling off those damn lights. The music—now that he paid attention to the actual tune rather than the ground shaking base, was a rather spectacular techno rendition of the Star Spangled Banner.

However, what was perhaps the worst was the main stage. There was a rather delectable looking person in leather chaps, a cowboy hat and nothing else—unless you counted glitter body paint as an article of clothing-- using a kid's stick-pony in ways that were not only creative but downright dirty. Ivan was sure there had to be a rule against that kind of usage—especially in front of the American who was openly gaping like he had just found the answer to all of life's meanings.

It was then he decided that Poland was going to hurt. A lot. For days. Actually, he amended, looking at America's face again, months—maybe even forever.

"Ivan—this is ABSOLUTELY AMAZING!" America shouted, turning to the large nation just as he walked away. The nation hid his face in one gloved hand as he weaved through people, but even his hand wasn't enough to hide the fact that his cheeks were as red as one of the stripper's thongs.

"Ivan! Hey, Ivan! Where are you—we just got—hey! Wait for me!"


End file.
